Crack Drabbles from the Stick Figure Challenge
by Caness
Summary: Prizes for the Stick Figure Challenge on the mylarfic comm on LJ. All Mylar obviously 3 of them. They are silly cracky things that I loved writing


**"Brains again"**

_sesemperamabo_ for _turnoutsutures _(on LJ)

Every time Mohinder and he fuck, it's like a fresh kill, a new high. He is drunk from it, craves it like oxygen; like _brains_.

Mohinder is always stealthy and nondescript, but Sylar wakes up before his chocolate hand can reach for the door. He mouths along as the scientist repeats his by-now predictable: "Zane? Are you awake?"

He sits, pretending to wake up. This is ritual now. He rubs at his eyes in feigned sleepy awakening, forcing a yawn and stretch for good effect. The truth is Sylar had only straggled in a few moments ago from his latest victim; his newest power.

_Telepathy._ Sylar smirks, a mockery of Zane's easy grin, as Mohinder invades his bed and climbs on top of him casually. When had this started being the only way either of them could get to sleep? The other man latches his mouth to Sylar's neck, causing him to grasp lamely at Mohinder's back. _It's just like…_

_Brains_, Mohinder thinks, the stray thought penetrating Sylar's consciousness forcibly. The serial killer starts, breath catching in his throat.

"Want you," Mohinder says offhandedly when he feels the body beneath him tense, nipping at Sylar's jugular.

_Brains_. The thought comes again, unbidden, distracting Sylar from his pleasure. He winds his large hands in the dark hair in an attempt to divert these unwelcome thoughts.

"_Want brains_," he hisses when their erections glide together. Between heartbeats and thoughts Sylar doesn't even know he's said it.

Mohinder leans back on his haunches to give "Zane" a look of bemusement. He drops back on top of Sylar almost immediately as the man creeks in protest at the lost contact, peeling his boxers away.

_Brains_, Mohinder thinks, and there is laughter in his mental voice. Sylar is almost disturbed, but then Mohinder takes him into his mouth and all thought, projected or personal, is eradicated.

"What was that?" Sylar asks, breathless.

"What?" Mohinder asks, in a mock! affronted tone. "I can't know slang?" And then he does laugh.

"Oh," Sylar says, swallowing his tension. "As long as I get brains again tomorrow night."

**Note:** I had no clue how to write about brains and so, on a whim, I typed "brains" in the search box over at wikipedia. What should come up but "slang term for oral sex (on a male)" and this really really strange thing was born. Try not to maim me plz, kthnx.

**"Decaf"**

_sesemperamabo_ for _haverstock _(on LJ)

He brought the small teacup to his lips, inhaling deeply. The pleasantly spicy aroma permeated his senses, overwhelming him with the promise of silky chai goodness. His shoulders bunched up involuntarily as he became lost in the experience.

The scientist peered at him curiously over his laptop screen, allowing a knowing smile to soften his sleep-addled features. Zane beamed back, taking a long appreciative pull from the ceramic cup as if it were strong liqueur.

"What kind of tea is this?" Sylar asked dreamily, positively _drowning _in his little thimble cup. Before Mohinder could answer, the tiny mug threw itself across the room, shattering upon impact with a leg of Mohinder's desk.

Mohinder's fingers never paused, flowing over the keyboard like a sea of marching ants. Sylar gasped, head jerking from side to side. "My tea…" he whined, feeling tears welling up in his eyes.

"Perhaps you should not have thrown your cup," Mohinder said, eyes glued to his computer screen. "_Mr. Sylar_."

"Oh my _GOD_," Sylar said, mouth dropping open. "_WHERE?_"

Mohinder shot him a condescending look.

"Oh."

Mohinder's laptop lifted off the desk of its own accord, evading the geneticist's grab for it as the notebook went flying through the air. Sylar put his hands over his ears, trying to block out his own maddeningly loud heartbeat. Which was precisely why Sylar didn't notice the shorter man's approach until he could clearly see his Puma sneakers from his hunched position.

"I like your shoes," he breathed, daring to look up. The computer clattered to the ground with a sickeningly slow mechanical crunch.

"Thanks," Mohinder said cheerily before drawing back his hand threateningly. Sylar was too preoccupied with his headache to notice until the stinging slap resounded through his head, making him dizzy beyond belief.

"Ow," Sylar said shortly, rubbing his cheek. "I guess I deserved that."

Mohinder deflated a bit at the halfway-admission. That hadn't been as satisfying as he had hoped.

"Mohinder," Sylar asked in a small voice, looking up at the darker man through his lashes.

"What?" Mohinder answered through gritted teeth, looking anywhere but those pleading brown eyes.

"Could I have some more tea?"

**"Pr0n"**

_sesemperamabo_ for _tessykins_ (on LJ)

Mohinder had to be imagining things. It was just that when they touched, it lingered just a bit too long. When Zane looked at him, it was almost too intense. And in the car, when all was silent, Zane would stare out the window or make doodles out of the fog on the inside, but Mohinder could _feel _the man's gaze on his neck. He wasn't reading too far into things, he _couldn't _be.

Zane seemed to have intimacy issues; he always skirted around people and tried desperately to make himself scarce, but with Mohinder he was never more than a foot away. Zane was _so _close and at such a frequency that he was beginning to forget how it felt to interact without the taller man's breath ghosting across his flesh.

The next time the metal-melter leans in close Mohinder is riddled with dilemma. Does he say something? _Do _something? Or just pretend that Zane is standing a respectable distance away? Not at all bringing attention to the fact that he is quite attractive in a devastatingly hopeless manner and triggering Mohinder's raging libido that hasn't been active for over a year? He sighs, and does nothing, even when their wrists brush, even when their eyes meet… when their lips are mere centimeters apart…

So when they once again find themselves here, standing awkwardly before their respective hotel room doors, Mohinder thinks he will burst from the _uncertainty _and pure ambiguous nature of his situation. Zane has been staring at Mohinder's lips for _minutes _by now, and it's driving the geneticist insane, his skin veritably crawling from the scrutiny.

Then Zane is leaning close, and Mohinder's heart flutters. He pushes himself toward the other man, suppressing a sigh when a large hand grasps his chin. His eyes fall closed, and this is all he ever wanted, all he could think about since meeting the elusive punk with the ability to liquefy. That's how Mohinder felt: liquefied.

He feels a pressure on his lips and then nothing, and a frown overtakes him. When his eyes flutter open, Zane is standing there all smiles and innocence, holding up one of Mohinder's embarrassingly curly hairs. Mohinder wants to _scream_, but he doesn't. He doesn't do anything but wish Zane a good night and turn in.


End file.
